


Heatwave

by rivalpoet2



Category: Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivalpoet2/pseuds/rivalpoet2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heatwave in Chicago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heatwave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sweetjamielee's "It's a Lockhart-Gardner Tradition" 2012 Summer Ficathon  
> Prompt: Alicia/Kalinda heatwave by lizook12

Chicago melts along with the rest of the country: wildfires in the mid-West, triple-digit temperatures on the East Coast, heat-waves coming in unstoppable waves, city after city. Chicago’s power-grids, unbearably burdened, collapse in defeat. Lockhart-Gardner’s backup generators muster only a tepid fan, a stale and intermittent puff of air that serves only to accentuate the oppressive heat of the office. The building’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows, Lockhart-Gardner’s pride and joy, were designed to catch every last bit of sunlight in Chicago’s long winters as lawyers scurry along the office corridors well into the dusk. Now, these same windows transform the sun into an unrelenting scourge, transmitting its punishing blaze into every corner of the office.

There’s no place to hide.

From her office, Alicia watches the second-year associates play a game of musical chairs in the conference room, each trying to find a place outside the glare of the sun.

Even Diane, at the head of the table, seems unusually flustered: Alicia can see her white silk blouse turn slowly and damply transparent, clinging to her skin and revealing a very red bra.

Across the hall, Eli’s heat-shortened temper turns his hair pterodactylic: gel melting and front locks wing-splayed after he screams at a secretary for a third time for her incompetence.

David Lee had simply snorted and gone home, as soon as the air-conditioners broke down.

Cary dispatches his secretary for the fifth time to the Starbucks downstairs for his fifth iced coffee. Alicia sees him sweating and sulking it out in a corner when she returns with the news that they have just run out of ice.

And she watches Will arguing with a client, his charm dented by the heat, his jacket flung on the sofa and his tie loosened. She watches a drop of sweat trickle down from behind his ear, down the contours of his neck, and remembers the same trickle, the same sweaty trajectory, at a hotel room from a different time.

The glass windows render all of them transparent.

Only Kalinda – Alicia sees her rounding the corner – seems unfazed. She stops to answer a query by a first-year associate who has been shadowing her like a blond golden retriever ever since she started at Lockhart-Gardner four months ago. Kalinda’s only two concessions to the stifling heat seem to be the disappearance of her leather jacket – a seductive v-neck in its place – and the glass of cold milk she is holding in one hand. Unflappable and unperturbed, cool as always: ice-cold, Alicia thinks bitterly.

But Alicia knows she knows better. For she remembers.

She remembers the constant scald of their touching fingers whenever they used to clink tequila glasses. She remembers the sultry warmth of Kalinda’s gaze from the backbenches in the courtroom, watching Alicia in action. She remembers the emanating waves of heat from Kalinda’s body, as she laughingly pulled Alicia into her, both of them shivering on a snowy night on a Chicago sidewalk and waiting to hail a cab. She remembers, even though she wishes she didn’t, from before – from way before – the melt of Kalinda’s lips as she finally mustered up her courage to turn her head, after one too many suggestive leans. The gentle scorch of Kalinda’s thumb as she traced Alicia’s lips and lightly remarked, “You’re drunk.” Alicia never mentioned the kiss again. Neither did Kalinda. And then, after, after Blake, after Peter, after Leela, after it all, there seemed to be nothing more to mention.

Alicia shifts, suddenly hyper-aware of the light perspiration on her neck, dripping slowly onto her back. Her thighs feel damp and sticky. Kalinda knocks on her door, and Alicia remembers the burn of tequila and offers of warm beer.

Through the ceiling-to-floor glass windows of Lockhart-Gardner, there’s nowhere for Alicia to hide from the sun.


End file.
